11:11
by lust a prima vista
Summary: and we looked at them eleven ways; you said, 'look at me', I looked away. —Giima/Shikimi.


**disclaimer. **_I do not own Pokémon or any of the characters depicted here._

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She mulls long and hard over her next writing project—it's not something she's tried before, and she doesn't have much of an idea on how and where to start.

Normally, the words come swiftly to her fingertips, flowing easily from the ink-spotted nib of her pen as she sends it dancing across the page, trailing behind it the oversized loops of her handwriting. Usually, the story would weave itself before her eyes, taking on a life of its own as each row of text marches across the paper beneath her hands.

But not today.

Yet another fragment of her upcoming manuscript, her latest _opus dei_, goes sailing towards her wastepaper basket, joining the detritus of discarded manuscript drafts now spilling haphazardly to the floor. She sighs, rubbing her temples. Another wasted effort.

The problem does not lie in the execution of her story. No, she has an idea, a concept in mind, but she doesn't know how to express it. She needs a plot to incorporate into her novel – no, mindless sex is reserved for seedy videos rented from equally dubious establishment, and has no place in her works.

The pen lies still, capped, inert, no longer chronicling her thoughts as they skitter from one prospective story idea to another. The idea has persisted in her mind for the past week or so, unravelling any train of thought she has attempted to compose, until it seems as though she can think of nothing else. Shikimi cradles the phone in her hands, watching as steam spirals from the mug of tea which sits, rapidly-cooling, just out of reach.

She's been having those dreams, those half-realised ideas, for several months now, ever since she published her last novella. It's always the same person in her fantasies, the same dark-haired man with those piercing blue eyes and roguish grin. Shikimi refuses to associate his name with the face that lingers in her imagination – surely there is something inherently _wrong_ with fantasising about one's infuriatingly handsome colleague, especially when they see one another practically every day.

With a wry twist of her lips, she throws all caution to the wind and begins to enter the number, fingers expertly twirling the dial of her telephone. She hesitates, absently toying with the spiral cord coiled around her fingers, and then—

"Hello," the voice says as the call picks up in the middle of the second ring. She shivers—the way he speaks is as enchanting as ever, whether he realises it or not. The quiet cadence of his speech is reminiscent of couverture chocolate, rich and smooth, with an underlying trace of something she cannot quite detect.

"Giima," she begins, and he sends a laugh rippling across the airwaves.

"How are you? Still writing masterpieces?"

She wearily removes her glasses, polishing them against her skirt as she speaks. "I'm having a bit of trouble with that at the moment," Shikimi says at last. "I was wondering if you could do me a favour."

She can almost, _almost_ feel his smile in his voice. "I'll be right over."

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Of course, it would be impolite to start making demands of him as soon as he arrives at her doorstep. She gazes at him for several seconds – it's increasingly difficult to ignore the faint grin which plays across his lips, or the fact that he's dressed to kill, or his scent – he must be using new cologne – that is distracting her from saying anything logical – and then makes up her mind. "What about we discuss this over dinner?" she proposes, and he shrugs, murmurs assent, and ducks back out to wait for her to get ready.

Once she's locked the door behind her, he offers her his arm, flashing her that sidelong half-smile that always, _always_ makes her feel weak-kneed.

"Where to, my lady?"

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Though most of the restaurant patrons have departed, the two of them still sit at their table as the candle sinks lower and lower into its holder. Over two glasses of full-bodied red, she relates to him her troubles, and to his credit, he nods patiently and makes no comment, thoughtfully swirling his wine around as the maître d' approaches them for the umpteenth time, asking them if they want their check.

"My, my, the situation seems desperate," he comments wryly, signing the bill without so much as batting an eyelid. "What is it you have in mind that is stymieing your creative processes so?"

Shikimi waits until the restaurant manager is out of earshot, before leaning closer, beckoning Giima to do the same. As the space between them closes, she wills herself to meet his steady gaze – why do his eyes have to be so very hypnotic?

"I'm trying to write an erotic novel," she states blandly. "And how much do I owe you?"

For once, she has the satisfaction of seeing Giima's composure slip; she watches with amusement as he gazes at her with the beginnings of incredulity painted lavishly across his features, until he settles back in his seat, fingers steepled before him.

They regard each other in silence, blue eyes meeting brown. His brow quirks with polite bafflement as he busies himself with toying with the bottle's cork. "Ah, I see. So you require inspiration," he replies, thoroughly ignoring her question.

Shikimi snorts slightly. "Don't be obtuse. Why else would I have asked—?"

Her breath hitches when he leans across the tiny table to give her a chaste, almost mischievous kiss on the lips. "Well, never fret. The situation can be easily remedied."

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As she fumbles with her door keys, Shikimi wishes he would stop whispering sweet nothings into her ear – it's hard enough to see in the gloom as it is, not without one's attractive colleague saying things like _that_.

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By the time they make it inside, they all but tumble through the threshold, entangled in an inglorious mass of limbs.

"Surely this is a little too sudden," she exclaims, but even to her ears, it sounds like she doesn't quite agree with herself.

"When I said I needed inspiration, I didn't mean _this_," she insists, as Giima relieves her of her stole. She is about to voice more of her doubts when he presses a finger to her lips, only to replace it with his own. Her argument sounds feeble to her own ears—she herself doesn't believe the half-hearted objections she voices, so how can she expect Giima to?

"The lady doth protest too much, methinks," he says matter-of-factly, and she almost wants to slap him for being so calm about it, especially when he's stolen her breath with his kisses.

That would make a good line in her novel.

She attempts to find the light switch, only to have her amorous companion snake an arm around her shoulders, entangling his fingers in her hair. "It's better in the dark," he purrs, and her knees nearly collapse beneath her.

"Don't say things like that," she begins, but he's already unlacing the ribbons of her dress and teasing it down. His fingers are warm, but nonetheless, she shudders as they dance circles on her bare shoulder.

"Now, now," Giima admonishes softly, unclasping her brassiere, "this is a two-way effort, you know. Go on, I won't bite."

She closes her eyes and loosens the tie around his neck, running her fingers through the smooth fabric; as she tosses it away from them, Shikimi is struck by how this is starting to feel like she is starring in one of those late-night film noirs she has taken to watching – all in the name of inspiration, of course.

With shaking fingers, she begins to unbutton his shirt, heart pounding to the refrain of his satin-smooth voice telling her all the things he was going to do with her; her breath falls into a shallow rhythm with the scrape of his teeth against her ear, and with urgent hands she pulls him closer to her. Discarded garments lie like fallen leaves around them, shadowy Everests of clothing demarcating each inhibition she triumphs over. Vaguely, she wonders why he doesn't make any effort to remove her dress or her stockings.

He seems to read her thoughts. A smile spreads over his face, an almost _coy_ expression she has never seen before. "Keep them on. There's something I find very arousing about a lady who can preserve her dignity even during such…_lewdness_."

Shikimi glowers momentarily at him, but has to admit he is right. Besides, she isn't quite sure if she is ready to see her colleague – the very man she sees every single day and passes in the hallway all the time, for goodness sake – fully unclothed just yet. For now, the shirt and trousers will stay.

Then, before she knows it, she's on the floor, pressed against her rug, legs wrapped around his waist. Her back arches from her carpet as he brushes against her; his touch is searing, electric, against her skin.

Just when she feels as though she cannot wait, just when his fingers – his dexterous, masterful fingers – trail down her belly, he pauses; Shikimi blinks dazedly up at him, cheeks flushed. "Why did you stop?"

He fills her mouth with his heat; when he pulls away, there is something oddly wolfish about his smile, something about the way the jagged shafts of light filtering in from her window makes him seem like someone else.

As much as she hungers for him, she cannot forget the fact that they are colleagues. Surely this is overstepping some sort of unspoken boundary?

"Come, now. Did you really think we would be doing this on the floor? No, no, we have more class than that, don't you think?"

She opens her mouth to reply, but he silences her again; trailing half-shed clothes behind them, he carries her to her boudoir.

"Oh, no, that would be the cheat's way out. I _did_ say I was going to inspire you, did I not? Well, I intend on inspiring you. _Completely_."

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They leave in their wake a telltale breadcrumb trail of undergarments, mementos of their tryst to be found in the morning. Whilst she has lost most of her intimate apparel, much to her disgruntlement, Giima still retains most of his clothes, though by this point, he is distinctly dishevelled, his hair now a mussed mess reminiscent of a bird's nest.

"I'm sorry about the state of my home—" she murmurs distractedly, but Giima ignores her, choosing instead to press his lips to her skin; she whimpers slightly as he nips gently, moving further south towards where she eagerly anticipates him, until—

She bucks when he slips his fingers into her, muffling a harsh, shuddering gasp against her forearm. "There's a trick to all of this," he breathes, shifting to kiss her again. Shikimi grits her teeth against the unholy sounds which strain to break forth from her lips, but Giima strokes her chin with his free hand, cupping her jaw in his palm as he forces her to meet his eyes.

"Don't be embarrassed," he whispers, his other hand still teasing her with maddening lightness. "I want you to lose all your inhibitions. I want you to say it. _Tell me what you want me to do to you._"

"Is-is this what happens in those sorts of stories?" she mumbles, the last syllable drawn out into a hiss as his fingers resume their lascivious dance. Giima's smile could illuminate an entire room.

"Say the magic word," he croons, pressing against her. "Say it."

Her eyes flutter shut, her breath comes in short, rasping bursts. "I want you to m-make me feel—"

"Say it," he repeats, a sly smile on his lips.

"I want you to make me feel good," she mutters at last, the pitch of her voice fluctuating erratically with each word.

Giima chuckles slightly. "Well, not quite what I was expecting. You might want to re-word that a little when you come to writing your novel."

With that, he curls his fingers and she jerks, hissing his name in a stifled mantra which only serves to widen his grin.

When she comes, she's trembling like a leaf in a gale, moaning incoherently as her back arches up from the nest of bedlinen. Although his hands have stilled, the aftershocks continue to ripple through her body, and in some distant, far-off part of her mind, Shikimi wonders how much of this she can take. She presses herself frantically against him, clawing at him as she reaches climax.

It is some time before she can speak again, some time until the blood has stopped pounding feverishly throughher head. "La petite mort," she mumbles indistinctly.

When her vision finally clears, Giima is staring at her, eyebrows raised. "I beg your pardon?"

"I know why they call it that. The French," Shikimi tacks on, still trying to catch her breath. "Their metaphor for—"

He smirks, then slowly, deliberately, raises his hand, slick with her fluids. She isn't quite sure what to make of the glint in his eyes, and settles for frowning suspiciously.

"My, what a big smile you have," she comments sarcastically; her attempts to look suitably haughty are foiled, however, by the fact that her glasses are still slightly fogged up.

Her colleague's grin widens. "All the better to taste you with, my sweet," he responds, and before her eyes, he licks his fingers, exaggerating each motion as she squirms with discomfort.

"Can you _stop that_?" Shikimi protests from behind her hands. "It's not very fair of you to be taking advantage of me like this. At least let me repay you." She can feel him, hot and hard against her, and suddenly feels apprehensive. "I owe you more than a dinner, it seems. To show my appreciation, let me take care of—"

He stops, gazing at her with half-lidded eyes bright with incredulity. "Taking advantage of you? Owing me favours?" Giima echoes, sounding almost insulted. "Hardly. What makes you think I am some sort of loan shark? I am your muse and your inspiration, am I not? Besides." His voice lowers to a suggestive whisper. "Whoever said this would be a one-off thing? We've barely even scratched the surface. This, my dear, is merely the tip of the iceberg."

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"The trick to writing a good novel of this genre," he whispers, lips brushing against the shell of her ear, "is to make your readers feel like _they_ are experiencing what is on the page."

"I understand," she rasps, stiffening slightly as he enters her. For a split second, there is the initial tightness, and then it is gone, leaving her feeling the fullness of his heat in her body.

"_Seduce_ them with your words," Giima purrs, entwining her fingers with his. She shudders, the first tentative syllable of his name leaving her lips.

"Make them want more," he continues, as he begins to move.

Shikimi is surprised when he shifts their positions, until she sits straddling him. "What…are you doing?" she manages to gasp, as his hands reach up to support her derrière_. _

"Say my name, Shikimi. Abandon your self-consciousness."

Despite her embarrassment, her body responds eagerly to him, settling into a steady rhythm as his grip on her tightens. She can't take it any longer—every fibre of her being is screaming urgently for release, and she has no choice but to obey.

In his embrace, with his tongue in her mouth, with him hot inside her, it is almost too much to bear.

She climaxes first, half-screaming his name as the spasms wrack her body. As she clamps down on him from within, Giima follows soon after, trembling as he kisses her, again and again and again.

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It is well past mid-morning by the time she awakens, reaching out blindly for her glasses on the bedside table. Once she fumbles them on, the memory of the past night's events return to her, and suddenly mortified, she jerks upright, bedsheets clutched to her chest, distantly wondering when she had fallen asleep.

Giima is gone, but the scent of his cologne lingers around her bedchambers. On the pillow next to her lies a note, written in his cramped, angular penmanship.

_My apologies for my hasty departure,_ it begins. _I had some errands to run this morning, and as such had to excuse myself from your company. About last night: I do hope I have managed to spark within you the flame of creativity. If not, then you know who to call._

_See you at work._

_Yours,_

_Giima._

As she drapes her bedspread around herself and makes her way to the bathroom, Shikimi crumples up the note and drops it into her wastepaper basket – already overflowing with the detritus of her earlier manuscripts.

The first thing she would have to see to is finding something high-collared to wear.

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**notes. **_For the Pokémon kink meme on LiveJournal._


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